They say mothers know best, but
who knows best when your mother is not a mother,
but instead a statue made of lies, stunted by fear and frozen by addiction, and her mother turns a blind eye?
It is still hard for me to wrap my mind around them standing there, seeing my hurt, watching me cry, and being unmotivated to act.

I try to put myself in their bodies, their minds, and understand.
How could you hear the cries through the walls, the muffled screams into pillows, AND STILL BE SILENT.




BUT then it all comes back to me.
To be a woman in this family is
to step out of your body and say
"I am not here" in order to survive.

And I realize I don't have to step into their bodies.
Their bodies lie in mine.
Every time His skin connects with mine
their skin screams out too...
Because their skin makes up to surface of mine.

But my mind separates us, makes us different.
It decided to evolve past the ****** up narratives
of being silent, of "taking it", of simply surviving.
Because when they chose to protect themselves,
it is me who went unprotected.